Christmas in a catalogue

This year my giftbuying strategy has changed radically. In previous years every gift had to be unique to each member of my vast, extended family. Presents were harvested over months of seasonal forethought.

If I was browsing in a Parisian flea market or a Turkish bazaar at the height of summer, I would still be thinking about Christmas. Then, throughout December I'd trawl around Portobello, Spitalfields and Selfridges.

This year, though, I've had enough: December 2003 is me time. And so I headed off to do all my Christmas shopping at Argos, where it simply does not get any easier.

I sat down at 2pm in a pub with the 1,400-page catalogue and it took me three hours to choose all my presents. I then went back to Argos and handed my slip (on which I had written all the catalogue numbers) to a very friendly and helpful assistant. I paid, took a seat and listened to piped Christmas tunes.

While I waited, my order was sent in from the stockroom on a Generation Game-style conveyor belt. In less than 15 minutes everything was stacked in front of me (if you spend more than £120 and are prepared to wait two days, you get free delivery). By 6pm my Christmas shopping was done and I still had enough time and change to go mad in the shoe department at Gucci.

Here are my Argos highlights:

Mum: likes quality. I often spend the price of a decent weekend mini-break on cashmere and Victorian botanical prints. The Argos catalogue was a dead loss for cashmere, so this year she gets a "top-of-the-range ultrasonic toothbrush". You can have all the cashmere you want, but without your own teeth it's not worth a fig.
Philips Ultrasonic electric toothbrush, £79.99.

Dad: usually entails antiquarian bookshops and obscure classical music stores. It was initially difficult to spot the perfect Argos gift for him among the vast quantities of novelty items - talking toasters, cut-price sovereign rings and Simpsons themed everything. This year he gets a digital radio (some of those new BBC digital stations are more highbrow than Peter Ackroyd).

Videologic DAB radio, £89.99 (£10 less than Harrods).

The three godchildren: educational wooden toys, cases of wine laid down at Berry Brothers and funky clothes please tasteful mothers more than their offspring. Children actually love revolting things made out of plastic that flash and make a lot of noise. For the boys, fabulous massive Incredible Hulk punching fists that roar and growl on impact with younger sisters (these cost £7 less than in other stores); for my god-daughter, Barbie trampolines and fluffy fairy lights. The mothers will hate me for filling their smart homes with green and pink plastic, and furry lights that shed like cats with mange; but the children will love me.

Hulk Hands, £18.75; Barbie trampoline, £29.99; Furry lights, £19.99.

My best friend Elaine: Diptyque candles, £50 knickers and pretty glassware are the norm. Elaine shops in Prada and would rather die than cross the threshold of Argos. She had mentioned she needed a new kettle and an ironing board (the latter seemed just a little too practical, even for me, the reborn Argos shopper). I bought the most expensive kettle in the catalogue (the one they had in the Big Brother house this year). It's designed by Porsche and has a beechwood handle and cool touch lid.

Morphy Richards kettle, £59.50.

Granny: always a tough one because old people never want anything. Usually it's scent, but this year it's something her and her most beloved can enjoy: an electric pet groomer.

Electric pet groomer, £19.99.

My sisters: They no longer ask me for anything practical and just wait for the glamorous surprise (Mongolian fur rugs, quirky French jewellery, one-off T-shirts). Aged 24 and 21, they are both little style fusspots, so I didn't even dream of looking at the extensive Argos jewellery pages and just bought them each a four-man tent. They both like boys and festivals, so why not? Pro-action tent, £49.99 (it's £67.99 at campingkit.co.uk).

My brothers: usually I spend embarrassing hours of ignorance in intimidating independent record shops buying rare metal, hip hop, dub and drum 'n' bass vinyl, accompanied by inordinately expensive art books. Ben, 19, a new art student, gets a toasted sandwich maker (again, top-of-the-range). Tom, 32, who keeps talking about joining a gym, gets a set of weights and a Case Logic CD holder. Will, 27, who as my favourite usually gets something unspeakably expensive, got the pick of the catalogue: a DVD player.

Breville brasserie-style sandwich press, £29.95; York designer dumbbells, £14.99; Case Logic 208 CD wallet, £29,99; Sony DVD player, £129.99.

The stepfather: I spend weeks finding an original photograph of the car that won the Monaco Grand Prix in 1953, and then he gives me a book token. This year he gets a shower radio/CD player. He can listen to Gerry and the Pacemakers while washing what is left of his hair.
Shower radio, £29.99.

The stepmother: she loves expensive underwear, Space NK goodies, hates anything practical and so she was always going to be tough. Bypassing the suitably impractical porcelain crying elephant and the extensive range of cuckoo clocks, on my third twirl through the catalogue I found some pretty Venetian glass picture frames (very Graham and Green). And I dared to buy some top-of-the-range hair rollers. She does, occasionally, do her own hair, I think.

Andrew Collinge volume curl rollers, £24.99; Venetian glass picture frames, £7.99.